In any of my pages in any of my books may life a perfect account of my secret experience of the world.

It hardly matters why a library is destroyed: every banning, curtailment, shredding, plunder or loot gives rise (at least as a ghostly presence) to a louder, clearer, more durable library of the banned, looted, plundered, shredded or curtailed.

In a library, no empty shelf remains empty for long.

I can understand that there are those who can think and imagine the world without words, but I think that once you find the words that name your experience, then suddenly that experience becomes grounded, and you can use it and you can try to understand it.

If justice takes place, there may be hope, even in the face of a seemingly capricious divinity.

If the Library of Alexandria was the emblem of our ambition of omniscience, the Web is the emblem of our ambition of omnipresence; the library that contained everything has become the library that contains anything.

In the light, we read the inventions of others; in the darkness we invent our own stories.